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Photo: Reuters, via ibtimes.com |
A week-and-a-half ago, I had oral surgery. Groggy from the IV drip, I blurrily scanned my post-op directions as my dude prepared to drive us two-and-a-half farm-filled hours back to Mammoth from Carson City. (See, we have a hospital here, and a dentist or two, and a robust physical therapy clinic where you can rehab every broken piece of your park-beaten kneecap, but you're sort of out of luck if you need glasses, or braces, or your gums sawed open in the name of periodontics.) Apparently, I was to stick to a strict diet of smoothies, soup, and protein shakes for the next week, so as not to disturb the very delicate nature of my fresh wound.